tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1403837625173210222024-03-13T19:44:44.291-05:00The Northern HarrierKatie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-56417315620297164992019-12-20T10:35:00.000-06:002019-12-20T10:35:44.281-06:00Garden Familiars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif;"><b>It’s 5 a.m. and -20 degrees</b>, and I take corn out to the patio. A one-eyed rabbit emerges from the shadows, zigzagging in fright at the loud crunch of my boots on the snow but eager for food. She’s been a good companion to me this past year, and I provide for her. Unlike in summer when she's out in broad sunlight, she is now a more crepuscular creature, and I see her when I put fresh food out at dusk or at dawn. Feeding her has been as much a daily chore as feeding my house cats, even when going outside has exhausted me and I've had to rest before returning to the house.</span><br />
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Last December, I retired from university teaching and didn’t realize quite the toll the cumulative years of my career had taken on me. During most of 2019 I was ill with colds or sinus problems at every turn or recovering from surgery. I’ve lost count of how many weeks I spent on the living room couch. Whenever I felt better, my world expanded from the couch to the back yard and grew to include simple outdoor routines in the garden. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Recovering and re-building my strength occurred when I really had the will to focus on lives other than my own. And beyond focusing on the people closest to me, I included my familiar garden creatures.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"> The one-eyed rabbit has lived nearly three years in the garden. She first showed up on the patio one day with terrible injuries to her head; half of her face looked torn clean off. I didn’t see how she could live. I fed her, saying softly that she didn’t appear to be long for this world. But she lived, though her right eye was damaged beyond recovery. I’d shoo away squirrels until she finished eating and make brush piles or plant flower shelters for her to hide in. I’ve come to know her habits and preferences, and how her life moves through an ordinary day, a summer, and the depths of winter. </span></div>
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We’ve kept company, in our own way. When I work in the garden, she snoozes a short distance away. Often, when I happen upon her, she stretches like a cat and yawns—a friendly greeting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> I was recovering from surgery at about the time the daylilies began to put on their colorful show. With the first inklings of returning energy, I sat one morning at the patio table with a cup of tea. The rabbit limped out with an enormous abscess on her leg that was half the size of her body. Again, I thought she’d met her match. But she hadn’t. Morning after morning I’d sit quietly and keep the other animals at bay while she ate. As I gained strength, I circled the yard </span><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;">to remove spent daylily blooms </span><span style="font-family: calibri, sans-serif; text-align: center;">while the rabbit slept or watched me. Tending the daylilies was a task I found comforting and meditative. The plant puts out more and bigger blooms with this attention and in turn lures more insects, hummingbirds, and even frogs.</span><br />
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I felt like a small part of this garden haven, tidying up waste so that everything else could do its mighty work of thriving. I healed, and so did the rabbit, though she took much longer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now, in winter, she seems fine. She eats well, and her leg is strong. Will she survive? I don’t know. I’ve clocked a lot of time with this rabbit, and the routines of checking on her, greeting her, and sharing a few moments in the day or week have been an unvarying, vital part of the years’ turning. </div>
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And, so, an ordinary garden rabbit helps announce a return to this blog, which has been idle for nearly six years. Solstice, the darkest time of the year, is here—a natural time for reflection and gratitude. Oddly enough, my year of up-and-down health has had its benefits, and now in the short days of winter I think of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s remark that “'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good, / That we may lift the soul, and contemplate / With lively joy the joys we cannot share.” I’d like to write again to share both the photographs and joys that I bring here from the outdoors, whether in the garden or further afield.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSiSgC5PPJu8vC23KwegytLlfo7cK2j30Y37KNc6xW10fZG69-0evQH1VL0lwLdMwQuQ4v7UE71JvKJ2XQdDXEOcO5nuvpICym2OtgZqyX3Dg4QlqdiT4XrXpH3Ei0pL0xNCbUW2nr2k/s1600/DSC_3717.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmSiSgC5PPJu8vC23KwegytLlfo7cK2j30Y37KNc6xW10fZG69-0evQH1VL0lwLdMwQuQ4v7UE71JvKJ2XQdDXEOcO5nuvpICym2OtgZqyX3Dg4QlqdiT4XrXpH3Ei0pL0xNCbUW2nr2k/s640/DSC_3717.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-86969696670728094202013-08-25T16:10:00.000-05:002013-08-26T03:56:45.455-05:00Ransacking the Hills<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
South Dakota. The Black
Hills. One phrase that comes to my mind
when I think of that beautiful landscape is “picked over.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqcQsbHTt0jozQKfu6RFzGbVJ9nuckS2zRcu1Xl12rXyxiNKTWH_PMcgPh6AWWeBIbkNfYFDy5iqr3_XHqNVxybFR10-2DQpHeqe2SknaWsJWPuq0GhCDt7fL9b1TIFXS8OUR30D0u_M/s1600/Black+Hills+June+09+050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicqcQsbHTt0jozQKfu6RFzGbVJ9nuckS2zRcu1Xl12rXyxiNKTWH_PMcgPh6AWWeBIbkNfYFDy5iqr3_XHqNVxybFR10-2DQpHeqe2SknaWsJWPuq0GhCDt7fL9b1TIFXS8OUR30D0u_M/s320/Black+Hills+June+09+050.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
The Black Hills have been picked over by
miners, loggers, gem hunters, rock thieves, bikers, hikers – and me. Over two million visitors a year swarm over the
hills. European Americans began flocking
to the area from the mid-19<sup>th</sup> century onward in search of gold and
timber. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN8l5zSzni6Z7iom8Lt3ni9BFvrRECmrqK3hGbju73s-KhMGHa-w930S2OUgICZuPUSWStL8TXyUEZsZMaZvG9FefgVpk9z8tr5p_9VXKpxibPg_qZYS_k_thoM4NdnWl3aih4EJZntK4/s1600/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN8l5zSzni6Z7iom8Lt3ni9BFvrRECmrqK3hGbju73s-KhMGHa-w930S2OUgICZuPUSWStL8TXyUEZsZMaZvG9FefgVpk9z8tr5p_9VXKpxibPg_qZYS_k_thoM4NdnWl3aih4EJZntK4/s320/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+048.JPG" width="299" /></a></div>
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Now tourists visit Mt Rushmore, Sturgis, Wind Cave, Flintstone
Village, and any number of resorts, campsites, and festivals.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ERIdVEEJi1dc7vzoMBl_Xp40nmrd9FgPRJKGGAzJQxnVC7zbWbv7LZo5V5meWQ76E0E2M-G8BBLPRjiHa7mm3WPn8EPI6LZxaYeoJ7KnjOlWJU32lYTrpiYV9zd1J4t09w1IKUTMd98/s1600/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9ERIdVEEJi1dc7vzoMBl_Xp40nmrd9FgPRJKGGAzJQxnVC7zbWbv7LZo5V5meWQ76E0E2M-G8BBLPRjiHa7mm3WPn8EPI6LZxaYeoJ7KnjOlWJU32lYTrpiYV9zd1J4t09w1IKUTMd98/s320/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
All of them are looking for adventure or
seeking to escape it all. I’m yet
another exploiter in a long line that has grabbed what she wants from the hills
and left the scratches and marks behind to prove it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe it’s the mood I’m in, but the time seems right for a
little self-scrutiny and assessment of my vacation time in the hills. Maybe the task I’ve just been performing encourages
me to refer to myself in unflattering ways, for I’ve been scanning my teaching evaluations
and marveling at the range of not-very-creative names that a few of my younger students
call me. Amongst the positive evaluations
are distracting epithets that are nestled like tiny rabbit pellets in a field
of broken quartz. I am everything from “hippie” to “bitch.” And, dear reader, I am “old.” Old as the hills.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISeJp0Cd6VgHgtqfLP5bx22K8WBMxZjdml5qY0CWsyDELsPbN6xksjTuOeUtQApxwdlDYBvYyvbQdLhSH1JHbjmuKJo1ELz3otXGgfv5T8dhuAw4yMEqIxb3aaBjvclVwxCI0sol7dyA/s1600/IMG_4321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISeJp0Cd6VgHgtqfLP5bx22K8WBMxZjdml5qY0CWsyDELsPbN6xksjTuOeUtQApxwdlDYBvYyvbQdLhSH1JHbjmuKJo1ELz3otXGgfv5T8dhuAw4yMEqIxb3aaBjvclVwxCI0sol7dyA/s320/IMG_4321.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A budding stress headache forces me outside for a walk in
the neighborhood. Impressions of my
most recent trip to South Dakota snag in my mind. The scent of the mulch that workers are
spreading at a multi-million dollar home on Fargo’s historic 8<sup>th</sup>
Street reminds me vaguely of the pines for which the Black Hills are named.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0vzC4FWIn3Wb1a0YynNE_KoX4eleZmRQ29CAHzJmkBz6jP8l8xLPTXcKhJgPJAotz0WJMvysMcGkPtCrgut7NgLQixvYNNkERAehniPOJrfzkjVSSbXjwm4evrVaNwOBMilJbEmB-8g/s1600/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC0vzC4FWIn3Wb1a0YynNE_KoX4eleZmRQ29CAHzJmkBz6jP8l8xLPTXcKhJgPJAotz0WJMvysMcGkPtCrgut7NgLQixvYNNkERAehniPOJrfzkjVSSbXjwm4evrVaNwOBMilJbEmB-8g/s320/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+140.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rand and I camp each year in the Black Hills in a tent that
grows more decrepit each season. This
year, the tent flap’s zipper separated when I thought I’d quickly nip out to
pee before a huge storm hit. The scent
of waterlogged ponderosa, the alarming stillness following a crack of thunder
and simultaneous lightning, and the ensuing sheets of rain cascading into the floor of the tent made
me one bedraggled old hippie bitch at 3 a.m.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-pWgXUxjE1CcAmYQPiI0rND_jDMLPN8nJi9NKgqZh3nxS4ETyPwAVN7Rpg_SLelO2AxMSvCWoxqj49IaV9z9EMSji9CdpjnHgyy0lVmB9rao7JPYV2ASg_DMKDyXfm1a5PJVIng_Bil8/s1600/IMG_2960.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-pWgXUxjE1CcAmYQPiI0rND_jDMLPN8nJi9NKgqZh3nxS4ETyPwAVN7Rpg_SLelO2AxMSvCWoxqj49IaV9z9EMSji9CdpjnHgyy0lVmB9rao7JPYV2ASg_DMKDyXfm1a5PJVIng_Bil8/s320/IMG_2960.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s always Sturgis rally week when we head to the hills,
because the land we camp on is available to us when the owners head out for
their annual bike week vacation. Above the dusty plain and away from Sturgis,
it’s easy to feel blessed: the air is
clean, mosquitoes are few, and the food in camp is abundant and good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnWi9_93wPsbRuoOnMysD3oryzcQCmVhzHlktqIFL5unSKEguSGy8x4QccIeXwhxSo9_lsZ3lLkga1LvZ3aaAymt5v2Qz9C5hvL78Ri9oA84wPBAHjj9oFCAPcVWKT4rN00QdkDjJKJo/s1600/Black+Hills+June+09+115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJnWi9_93wPsbRuoOnMysD3oryzcQCmVhzHlktqIFL5unSKEguSGy8x4QccIeXwhxSo9_lsZ3lLkga1LvZ3aaAymt5v2Qz9C5hvL78Ri9oA84wPBAHjj9oFCAPcVWKT4rN00QdkDjJKJo/s320/Black+Hills+June+09+115.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
But we’re also riding on the coattails of all
those who have come before us and taken what they’ve wanted from the hills.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am part of the population that ransacks the hills. I visit for a short while, and then I
leave. I tell myself that I am not as
bad as the humans that have exploited the Black Hills and left it scarred with
stumps, holes in the earth that gape like wounds, piles of bottles and rotting tin
cans, and heaps of machinery that was useful decades ago. Slash heaps and acres of wood ridden with pine beetle dot the landscape.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeswQ7R-l31yGC411TIdTqKFCAKsjBCnwFHkaB4gBoajjMei4lbgALi6voygxA7PHyqwRxquZaNwDRFBg-UCFvqNvYzgbwxI0XI8rCqf7HsdElecaCspaXvtPkPT2E0Usvw_m-h9fT0Y/s1600/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+139.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVeswQ7R-l31yGC411TIdTqKFCAKsjBCnwFHkaB4gBoajjMei4lbgALi6voygxA7PHyqwRxquZaNwDRFBg-UCFvqNvYzgbwxI0XI8rCqf7HsdElecaCspaXvtPkPT2E0Usvw_m-h9fT0Y/s320/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+139.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_326333032"></span><span id="goog_326333033"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taker. That’s a name
that would apply to me. I do take things
from the hills. Small things. Dried teasel heads to decorate my Christmas
tree. Ponderosa pine cones to pile in a
trug. Pieces of quartz I stuff in my
pockets to later work into my rock garden. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1m3BpjtYEdr6xEU30idXucbK2Hjn7CO2ZABy90iCs_ugk2JDqlH3M5CmrHtDNs8tcAMwk1r-Pj4y1Q2_sFm6bGKknK3Lg4NvZqcpX5Q7EUWKRdsYv8NSfQwD5b5klODAVXaTMUcZ5yM/s1600/IMG_3428.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1m3BpjtYEdr6xEU30idXucbK2Hjn7CO2ZABy90iCs_ugk2JDqlH3M5CmrHtDNs8tcAMwk1r-Pj4y1Q2_sFm6bGKknK3Lg4NvZqcpX5Q7EUWKRdsYv8NSfQwD5b5klODAVXaTMUcZ5yM/s320/IMG_3428.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
A seed pod from a flower that would never sprout in Fargo, ND.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialnw-kklaKfVXy-OUyEZkROSYPcWM-hwRqBQx3ekpwfrXSH6LVOQLcETcl3n2170hHDbOSs-m5PbrxfuwV62TakB1lAQrH4TR_JS0NyKHrhXEoM7f1TJJaEcXJwyK-oBpKooDn7dR1QM/s1600/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEialnw-kklaKfVXy-OUyEZkROSYPcWM-hwRqBQx3ekpwfrXSH6LVOQLcETcl3n2170hHDbOSs-m5PbrxfuwV62TakB1lAQrH4TR_JS0NyKHrhXEoM7f1TJJaEcXJwyK-oBpKooDn7dR1QM/s320/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+069.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Hundreds of photos that make me seem like a
well-traveled middle-aged (not “old”!) person interested in beauty and
adventure. Taker.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is foolish to think that I am exempt from our tendencies
to take, use, and then minimize the consequences of our contact with the land. We “escape” into the hills on 4-wheelers and
engage in a lot of turf tearing, even though we keep to designated trails and
observe “pack it in, pack it out” rules.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFtTCaQtMX3d90XeAXBrzkGO4wq7FYDiPWCPnylg8x4Suiz46b_tEn_C5kDlOf5_fdHoEikbpsq6Q2n2Msb_sXo_93dUlsYofk4zGReSI7MVWhZMS0f-QhYauLD3a0G4pwx0j3OV8z84/s1600/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrFtTCaQtMX3d90XeAXBrzkGO4wq7FYDiPWCPnylg8x4Suiz46b_tEn_C5kDlOf5_fdHoEikbpsq6Q2n2Msb_sXo_93dUlsYofk4zGReSI7MVWhZMS0f-QhYauLD3a0G4pwx0j3OV8z84/s320/Black+Hills+August+09+trip+017.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
We offer sage opinions on environmental degradation from wheelers that
snort and gouge up the logging trails far above the fray. It’s easy to look down on the record masses
of bikers below and think that we are not as environmentally problematic as they are because we
are fewer, or to look over at a mountaintop cropped bald by the big mining
operations and say that we aren’t as exploitative as that. Our impress on the land is comparatively
minimal, although there are plenty who would call us menaces and vermin simply because
we ride 4-wheelers. More names.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Home now and with a new year of classes starting tomorrow,
in my mind I’m lying in the soggy tent under the pines in the picked-over Black
Hills, staring up at the moth battering at the tent’s apex, and wondering how
to account for and explain the contradictions, ironies, and slant truths. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">I’ve always thought of myself as relatively benign, but it’s easy to see a long string of unflattering monikers unfolding in my wake. What name shall I assign myself?</span></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-1707889612404595132013-07-07T11:23:00.001-05:002013-07-07T11:25:23.078-05:00Invasives in the Garden<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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The other day one of my students showed up to our
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As Dan weeded his garden, this grass reminded him of the
extraordinary length of the roots of native perennial prairie plants and how
they hold the soil and reach deeper than many shallow-rooted non-native annual
plants for scarce water resources.
Whether this grass plant was native or not didn’t matter for the moment;
what did matter was that its tenacity and water-reaching habits could show his
tender radishes a thing or two about survival.
It also made him think about which kinds of plants can survive prairie
conditions unaided and which kinds need an assist.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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I’ve been tending to my own non-native plants and know
exactly which ones would be growing in my city yard should this property be
abandoned for 100 years. In particular, I
think of “Bela Lugosi,” the deep wine-colored daylily of my mother’s that I
brought from her garden to mine in Fargo.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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After she died, I dug up many of her flowers to make a
living legacy in my own yard. Some
plants didn’t survive the first winter, but Bela Lugosi persists and, like the
celluloid heroes that Ray Davies (my favorite Kink) admires, will “never really
die.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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Bela is not “liable to turn and bite,” but is here to stay
quietly and bloom where planted. So is the
tough perennial grass that stowed away entwined in Bela’s fleshy
tubers, cheerfully going from Michigan to North Dakota soil without missing
a beat. My mother called it “Johnson
grass” (<i>Sorghum halepense</i>) and cursed
its long runner roots. Johnson grass is a
Mediterranean import, first sowed by Colonel William Johnson on his Alabama
plantation in 1840. Thanks a bunch, Bill.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Every year I feel down through the healthy strapping leaves of
the daylily and grub out the stubborn thin ropes of Johnson grass (is it really
Johnson grass? Or was that my mother’s catch-all for any weedy grass?). I hope that I pull with the right tension and
at the right angle in order to yank out several inches of roots. No matter how many times I repeat this
process, the grass returns every year.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Get rid of that daylily,” said the landscaper that was
digging a new flowerbed with organic curves to beautify my backyard. He regarded Bela and its clasping partner as miscreants
that would forever wreak havoc. He was
aghast that I wanted him to divide Bela, clean the tubers, and ensconce the
doublets in his masterwork. When I
promised that I would never blame him or his landscape design business for any
blades of grass in the garden, he reluctantly cut the vampire in two and put
the halves to sleep in the soft black dirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sure enough, the grass returns every spring, wrapped tight
around the Drac’s subterranean heart. The
pint-sized crimson-purple lily blooms shyly and profusely, and every year I
remember how my mother and I would stroll through her garden in the evening,
drinks in hand, as she said, “Now there’s ‘Miss Lindgard,’ and ‘Bright Eyes,’
and tiny ‘Bitsy’; ‘Alma Potschke’ will be just lovely in a few weeks – and
look, ‘Bela Lugosi’ will bloom any day now.”
It always seemed appropriate that a seductive little vampire cozied up
to a bevvy of beauties.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I doubt throwing Bela Lugosi away would have solved the
grass problem. It seems oddly fitting
that the grass and the daylily run their course together. Both are tough as old boots and built to take
a beating. Bela is a far cry, however, from <i>Hemerocallis fulva</i> (often referred to as Ditch lily or Outhouse lily) which is often seen along the sides of rural roads, but its roots are identical in that they hold soil in
place and prevent erosion. </div>
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Those bright
drifts of the semi-wild orange lilies floating in seas of tall grasses often mark the sites
of old homesteads that are long gone.
Back in the 1790s many settlers brought the now ubiquitous orange flower
to adorn their gardens and provide a touch of domestication for their new homes
in a strange land.</div>
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Neither <i>Hemerocallis</i>
“Bela Lugosi” nor <i>Sorghum halepense</i>
is a native plant, nor are they prairie plants.
Bela is a Johnny-come-lately, a mere babe hybridized in 1995. Still, in fantasy it is interesting to ponder
their individual fates should they both be abandoned on a lonely 19<sup>th</sup>
century farmstead. We already know that Johnson
grass would run roughshod, crowding native prairie plants, swarming over and
under the land and into cultivated fields with its greedy, snaking, rhizomatous
roots. It is one of the most noxious
weeds in the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
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About Bela, we also know enough to say how he would perform. He isn’t much of a vampire (unlike the
Johnson grass), and he would never succeed the way that <i>Hemerocallis fulva</i> has.
Still, in true daylily fashion, he would put up a fight, his plump
tuberous roots trying to make the most of scarce water. His refined genes, however, would place him a
far distant second to his common orange cousin, and he’d never achieve so grand
a testament to his will to endure as “Outhouse Lily.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-77845453831606335352013-06-14T09:59:00.001-05:002013-06-14T09:59:43.641-05:00Words and Birds<br />
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I enjoy reading with birds around me. A book in hand and a bird nearby make my
day. I love it when the shy birds come
out after a noisy crowd of people has left the area and only I remain there.</div>
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At times, both reading and writing are troublesome for me. I’ve always suspected that I have a mild form
of dyslexia. Words blur and resolve into
their opposites; phrases stubbornly repeat but don’t settle into complete
sentences; sometimes the stutter-stop action of words flickering on my brain
but leading nowhere forces me to put books down altogether. Writing is fraught with difficulty, too. Organization is a perennial problem. Sometimes my hands even type the wrong words,
which always astonishes me.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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A colleague of mine once masterfully intoned to me that he
could read x number of words per minute and thus could calculate how long it
would take him to complete a reading assignment. Inwardly, my unruly mind boggled at this,
atoms scattering like a cloud of starlings that had suddenly lost its trademark
direction and cohesion. Outwardly, I
mustered the all-purpose (if vacuous) smile-and-nod. How could he be so disciplined? Did he really read at the same rate under any
condition? Even when I read what I call
“study books” for my classes, my reading speed and trajectory vary wildly. Who reads Annie Dillard at the same pace as a
freshman textbook on argumentative structures?<o:p></o:p></div>
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X number of words per minute. That phrase has caught in this sieve of a
mind. My reading pace is never
constant. The only constants are the
presences of books and birds, and of time’s winged chariot hurrying on. Most places I visit promise the possibility
of seeing birds, sitting with them, and reading a book, even if I am inside a
building and looking out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The best times are when I sit until the birds grow
comfortable with my presence. I read on
my patio, and they eat seed at the feeders or splash in the puddles left by the
storms or pull fat worms from the lawn. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On a farm, a nesting phoebe let me pull a lawn chair within
spitting distance so that I could read while she incubated her eggs. We both sat motionless, eyes turned toward
each other, blinking in the nexus of our described spaces.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Perhaps reading with birds helps to calm the mind’s
processing of words, and letters look less like moody winged seraphs taking off
and more like clear signifiers winged with serifs. Of course, reading is suspended when I meet
the phoebe’s eye or watch a chickadee flitting in the bushes near where I sit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I go back and forth between book and bird. Reading resumes when I spare the phoebe from
my gaze or let the chickadee regard me as part of the patio. Then they tolerate even the turn of pages or
a shift in my position.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I both relish and distrust analogies about birds and
reading, yet I often like to try them out.
In my own writing I worry that they will seem clever, as if I delight
more in the analogy than the birds that prompted them or am using the birds for
my own self-conscious enjoyment.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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While I read, my mind flutters and skitters along like
skirmishes of small birds along the shore of a pond, picking something up here
and there, never for very long.
Occasionally, with a real page-turner, it kites along on one of those
long skirling rides that the peregrine takes down the face of the sky. Chain reading from one book to another echoes the
way I train my binoculars trained on first this bird and then that at a slough
teeming with mixed flocks during migration.
Books pile up on the floor around me, like the birds and their noisy entwined
colloquy. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p>I long for the purposeful, light, and unerring maneuverability
of a Cooper’s hawk, and wish to read down each last word in the order it was
intended, much the way the raptor unflinchingly pursues the hapless finch
through tangles and thickets. I wish I
could write as neatly, gracefully, and solidly as a hummingbird constructing
her nest. Lacking the efficiency and tidiness
of either, I enjoy their proximity and, as is the wont of the human creature, fancy another's traits as my own.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-38957824107378030192013-06-08T06:42:00.000-05:002013-06-08T06:42:50.041-05:00Stealing the Wrens<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve wanted to steal the wrens from my neighbors for a long
time. The elderly couple does not live next door anymore, but have moved away to be close to their children.
I am happy for their good fortune in family but sad for my loss of their
presence. I always coveted their wrens,
the way they trilled from deep in the ivy hedge, or scolded from atop the
rose trellis, or popped in and out of the little birdhouse attached to the
garage while Ellen weeded her flower garden. </div>
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The neighbors two doors down have had wrens, too, which jauntily preach
from atop a swinging birdhouse that hung from a pole.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFKNd4RPis_FCa-VddoNsJwzkSYHSfJXfP9oI1bhfRnaMuWA0URTd5eERDsTd5j-RY0KO5qnuJEnS1UVqW6y_9LByt066yEt9hDtWDzfwO1gsyhcPtAYQ4ALZf3E7mTGsCt6JKo64Xxc/s1600/IMG_0224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOFKNd4RPis_FCa-VddoNsJwzkSYHSfJXfP9oI1bhfRnaMuWA0URTd5eERDsTd5j-RY0KO5qnuJEnS1UVqW6y_9LByt066yEt9hDtWDzfwO1gsyhcPtAYQ4ALZf3E7mTGsCt6JKo64Xxc/s320/IMG_0224.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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It was a student in my Ecocriticism class last fall who
emboldened me to change my ways and hang birdhouses in my yard. In deep winter, he brought to class a wood
duck box that he had made as part of his final project. From a dingy classroom in the frozen north, he
anticipated spring and summer and was full of hope that a wood duck family
would set up shop along his stretch of the Red River. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I’d already taken steps toward making my yard friendly for
birds. I set out birdbaths and planted
shrubs and trees where the previous owners had, perversely, taken them all
out. But I’d stopped short of putting
out birdseed, because my neighborhood is overrun with cats, including a swanky-looking
Siamese that everyone has nicknamed “Killer” even though his real name is “Buzz.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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After my student presented his wood duck box to the class, I
picked up a wren box and placed it out to weather the lean days of winter. The no-frills plain box swung in the harsh
winter wind and held steady with a load of snow on its rooftop. </div>
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Dreams of stealing the neighbor’s wrens motivated
my mid-February purchase of an “eco-friendly” wren box from Jeffers Pet. </div>
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And at the height of wren anticipation in
mid-May I impulsively bought a deluxe wren “log cabin” with a fancy skeleton
key perch from a vendor at a bird festival.
The trio of boxes hangs above the flower garden by the garage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In late May the male wren appeared, his bell-bright warble a
dead give-away to his elfin return. He fussed
and prattled from the overgrown shrub by the three-season porch. I stuffed a decrepit wren box in the heart of
the shrub and fastened it tight with a fuzzy green pipecleaner. He didn’t like it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I went away for a week, convinced that I had failed to
entice the wrens. When I returned, I dropped
my bags in the front hallway, opened the windows, and sank into the couch. A steady spree of burbling and bubbling emanated
from the yard, and a male wren was showing his mate the three nest boxes by the
garage. In and out of each box she went,
the male chattering all the while from atop the shepherd’s crook. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I don’t know if the wrens have positively selected one of my boxes
or if my boxes are merely a few among many that the male has chosen for his
lady to inspect. The male struggled to
get a large twig into the no-frills box yesterday, and a quick peek reveals
quite a nest pad cushioning its cavity. This
morning the yard is filled with the wrens’ cascading watery notes. That’s more than my student can say about his
wood duck box. Last I heard, his wood
ducks were merely “in the vicinity,” but his class project sits empty.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-44371558942975342822012-11-23T11:46:00.001-06:002012-11-23T17:32:57.564-06:00Ecotone<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSen8PDOUym1i4LWjCjz2sRn3UbdTQ0QZjYxf4DEDIugPiwUJom4hWRhXxZoSoqxleOcQLctKFHgN-pHO1oB_etl7yPh991W1yExVe0l690rVXMSonVTdL8eDJD9I7MBYgHHRjhGt9T88/s1600/P1020206.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSen8PDOUym1i4LWjCjz2sRn3UbdTQ0QZjYxf4DEDIugPiwUJom4hWRhXxZoSoqxleOcQLctKFHgN-pHO1oB_etl7yPh991W1yExVe0l690rVXMSonVTdL8eDJD9I7MBYgHHRjhGt9T88/s320/P1020206.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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Lately I find myself rather like Thoreau, surveying all the
farms (for I live in farm country) and appraising their assets while
daydreaming of living in the country. I
drive slowly along the dirt roads, making offers, retracting them, testing the
soil, pondering the foundations of the houses, orchestrating deals and
undertaking renovations in my imagination. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii589YBzgwlP71D6rHTviq4hyz7hE5o0i-I9E2tdaCsWfWPeQbHfiDvOCMl0Xf5WX4siXaUbtK1shVjiQ563kK6zDrpSJMZz554H0X7v95H_Z4_YwMmgPSb6X9b4cV9C5j9M6f_DHxr2A/s1600/P1020297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii589YBzgwlP71D6rHTviq4hyz7hE5o0i-I9E2tdaCsWfWPeQbHfiDvOCMl0Xf5WX4siXaUbtK1shVjiQ563kK6zDrpSJMZz554H0X7v95H_Z4_YwMmgPSb6X9b4cV9C5j9M6f_DHxr2A/s320/P1020297.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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A glance in the rearview mirror sobers me up: the zigzagging tire tracks
of my car would suggest to anyone that I am driving drunk or at the very least
impaired. Which, in a certain sense, I
suppose I am: impaired by imagination,
impaired by nostalgia for a vanishing land. Old abandoned farmsteads capture my fancy. I muse: which place shall it be? what house seems ideal? if I woke up in the
morning here, what would it be like? These places just need a little TLC and duct tape to make them viable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSu_rP2P-AwUSUQSq4qiUgo_xRw6K1bZ9bNlMBlzAFspa0mRE4HhKQaTZ79NOXs9TXBQQg2A9HWvGVB0EUNjLQbrrw9RZS_qpNsQtyIqzytcETxc_0BVVBDHS51eE07rZ_H-HRMWDP5I/s1600/Skree+moose+country+016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmSu_rP2P-AwUSUQSq4qiUgo_xRw6K1bZ9bNlMBlzAFspa0mRE4HhKQaTZ79NOXs9TXBQQg2A9HWvGVB0EUNjLQbrrw9RZS_qpNsQtyIqzytcETxc_0BVVBDHS51eE07rZ_H-HRMWDP5I/s320/Skree+moose+country+016.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I do not wish to farm.
Indeed, if I see crops on or near the abandoned
farmhouse, I quickly as possible return that land in my imagination to pre-ag
days of prairie or mixed prairie plantings—grasses, reeds, scrubby bushes and
twisty stunted trees. “My” land would
need to promise habitat for inhabitants other than me. Ideally, the territory would be mixed: gnarly oak forest for the deer, a pond, slough, or pothole with reedy marsh full
of cattails for the ducks, geese, and songbirds, and open savannah for the
harriers to hunt and perform their sky dances.
An ecotone is exactly what I’d like.
An ecotone is a border zone, an area where two distinct habitats butt up
against each other. The grassland
brushes up against the forest, and a marshy pond acts as a great resource for
animals of both woodland and prairie zones.
The biological diversity of this transitional zone is great, greater
than that found in either woodland or prairie on its own.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I particularly adore the Northern Harrier, a hawk I would
never have noticed had I not moved to the Red River Valley some 19 years
ago. Even then my prejudice against the
flat aspect of the land prevented me from noticing the harrier until nearly 13
years later. And until the last month, I
did not know what to do next with my growing interest in this fascinating hawk. October found me in the basement digging
through a box of my late father’s books. Way always leads on to way when one sorts
through books and after finding the book I came for my hands lit on a copy of <i>Irish
Nocturnes </i>by essayist Chris Arthur from Northern Ireland. I started to read Arthur’s essays that morning, fascinated with
his meditations about the corncrake and the kingfisher, and mesmerized by his
handling of memory and time. As I read
his words I asked if could write more carefully about birds, too. Could I pursue the harrier not only with a
camera but also with words? And as way leads on to way, reading books led me to
internet research about the harrier and yet another writer from Northern
Ireland, Don Scott, and his fabulous monographs on the hen harrier. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The harrier in Ireland is a rare creature, rather like the
fabled unicorn. Many people have never seen it. Scott’s scientific
research in <i>The Hen Harrier -- In the Shadow of Slemish </i>highlights the threats to harriers in County Antrim, N.
Ireland: merciless persecution by
humans, overgrazing by sheep, loss of marshland and moorland due to
agricultural practices, peat cutting, and wind turbines. My own photographs reveal comparative practices in the United States that threaten our harriers. Here are only a few of the potential threats
to harriers and harrier territory:<o:p></o:p></div>
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Wind turbines, while generating energy, often kill birds who cannot see the white blades against a white sky:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWHzLE0HO42Ue5MYiWiyAh3DM8a71UwPg_a1-komnQ6fXLubBBgK55YOmNYUNTThP_QkiET_lokzjVehd_wBFSSxK9gkdI7Sa2xBgqFbcJ9uPTHp8k9RXHqooUJgit1EO7x2AHUoPyg4/s1600/P1010898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWHzLE0HO42Ue5MYiWiyAh3DM8a71UwPg_a1-komnQ6fXLubBBgK55YOmNYUNTThP_QkiET_lokzjVehd_wBFSSxK9gkdI7Sa2xBgqFbcJ9uPTHp8k9RXHqooUJgit1EO7x2AHUoPyg4/s320/P1010898.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Grazing from farm animals disrupts land that the ground-nesting harriers require:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0m1ijR2vCDsnrsAmpBAkCoXRI-ozgudjiKx7BlmUJ_H3f8y0WGPfX-Pqdt3UHiC18umRGIonGiiNRG-DmL2j1w5NKQWbWI1IQa43P6Xz7VF48ATEj8P8rVxXjn32UeUTUnH95QSO304s/s1600/008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0m1ijR2vCDsnrsAmpBAkCoXRI-ozgudjiKx7BlmUJ_H3f8y0WGPfX-Pqdt3UHiC18umRGIonGiiNRG-DmL2j1w5NKQWbWI1IQa43P6Xz7VF48ATEj8P8rVxXjn32UeUTUnH95QSO304s/s320/008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Pumping water out of marshlands drains territory that the harriers require for nesting and hunting:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6IJsjn5XAmGgVTTsTB956pHheJHJdZNUWS1lJe77fcE5s2aZ1jA60AI1BXjA-bypnr3aBhNAYVfTKTxm5DrgKVbMmgF0t_iy7QbKm2AFB9k53GvtKUE-rAatOy0mU8VTnVOw6QeU19G8/s1600/photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6IJsjn5XAmGgVTTsTB956pHheJHJdZNUWS1lJe77fcE5s2aZ1jA60AI1BXjA-bypnr3aBhNAYVfTKTxm5DrgKVbMmgF0t_iy7QbKm2AFB9k53GvtKUE-rAatOy0mU8VTnVOw6QeU19G8/s320/photo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Cutting down and burning shelter belts decreases biodiversity in harrier country:<br />
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Burning sloughs to increase available cropland decreases biodiversity and reduces nesting and hunting territory:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rng29orc4C1cw7wpxYPFXziJ5NanGuQKIY1kJ5H2nIG9db04e1xw9vo-9c3YvTJGP23Ato7iqm9fAmCsLixt2ai5BRvnG4pOlEUB6ZqEKrld2ooKUvwcsN0T52rBJb_aWpx1uHOv1ps/s1600/P1010896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-rng29orc4C1cw7wpxYPFXziJ5NanGuQKIY1kJ5H2nIG9db04e1xw9vo-9c3YvTJGP23Ato7iqm9fAmCsLixt2ai5BRvnG4pOlEUB6ZqEKrld2ooKUvwcsN0T52rBJb_aWpx1uHOv1ps/s320/P1010896.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Burning cattails near a slough to gain 20 feet of cropland takes away ever-diminishing requirements for a bio-diverse community:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDXl00edCP-OXvxL49CB-Vmw2ZXicn7Ej9nReGuNL56jHdGE3iV7-tqw7hO1G9-KDQSr9J5vq7jYc-N388QLpLB9o58vO9LzavOxTdReLnmokcrVpjdgwL_lMWBQtiyjunjf-0DvogUs/s1600/P1020302.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitDXl00edCP-OXvxL49CB-Vmw2ZXicn7Ej9nReGuNL56jHdGE3iV7-tqw7hO1G9-KDQSr9J5vq7jYc-N388QLpLB9o58vO9LzavOxTdReLnmokcrVpjdgwL_lMWBQtiyjunjf-0DvogUs/s320/P1020302.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The very ecotone zone that fuels my fantasies and fosters biological diversity is under threat.
In the upper Midwest, it sometimes seems that it would suit folks fine if
the entire territory were put into endless agricultural fields relieved only by massive oil fields. Damn the badlands, the
prairie potholes, and the few stands of trees and shelterbelts left over from
CCC days. Flatten the land out;
eliminate ecotones; banish diversity; view the land as only a commodity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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While harrier numbers in America are still high, they are on
the decline due to habitat loss as a result of human activity. The threats to harriers are equally threats to
us all. Way will lead onto way as my harrier
watch changes under the influence of the work of two very different writers
from N. Ireland. I will write more
carefully in the future, and I will continue shopping like Thoreau -- the only kind of
shopping I intend to do on Black Friday in America.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-68038585998299198332012-10-15T14:24:00.002-05:002012-10-15T14:24:49.241-05:00Let It Be<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In early October I read a story that made me angry. And I am still angry in mid-October. A woman in Fort De Soto Park in Pinellas,
Florida, was seen and photographed riding a manatee, one of the country’s
largest, most gentle, and sensitive mammals.
The endangered sea giants are threatened by habitat pollution and destruction
as well as by injury and death from jets skis and boat propellers. The Florida Manatee Sanctuary Acts are strict
and specific: the woman committed a
second-degree misdemeanor by jumping on the manatee and enacting her own ride-with-the-dolphins
fantasy. She has since turned herself
in, claiming ignorance of the law. </div>
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I have recently re-read Aldo Leopold’s <i>Sand County Almanac</i> with my ecocriticism students at the
university. Leopold argues that as humans
we cannot help ourselves: we have to
“cherish and fondle” wilderness in order to know about it. In the process, we ruin it. Leopold insists, however, that we must start
helping ourselves. That was in
1948. People desire closeness to and
possession of animals, and then the problems begin. To cherish and fondle is too often to harm or eradicate. We fondle some species right
into extinction. If the animals we wish
to “cherish and fondle” turn the tables and initiate contact with us, or dare
to lay a hoof, paw, or wing on us, eager citizens and authoritative entities
line up to poison, slaughter, and otherwise eliminate them. The largest animals (and birds), especially
the apex predators, get the rawest deal of all.</div>
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I pursue animals, and I always question what I do. I have tagged along with pheasant hunters in
a desire to learn about both dog and bird, but my solo hunting is done strictly
with a camera and my five senses and always within reason. I try, as Barry Lopez suggests in <i>Arctic Dreams</i>, to hunt by “hav[ing] the
land around [me] like clothing.” More often
than not the camera dangles by my side while I strain my eyes for a close-up
that will never end up on a data card.
The shots I do take have resulted in an impressive gallery of animals,
birds, amphibians, and insects running away from me. My desire to understand and get close to
nature has netted me the best portfolio of nature’s butts in the area. </div>
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Often animal fear is palpable. Ever since I read Jon Silkin’s 1975 volume of
poetry <i>The Peaceable Kingdom</i>, the
words from his “Prologue” ring in my head.
In Silkin’s interpretation, humans had a choice of two paths to follow. When the flood came and everyone went pouring
into the ark, the humans chose “the bad dark” path, and the animals took refuge
with the knowledge “that human beings will hate them wherever they go.” Silkin’s argument requires that the reader
accept a number of challenging claims about Christianity, animal consciousness,
and the uses to which humans have put the natural world, but it is a persuasive reading
nonetheless. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The words ring in my ears when I see baby rabbits paralyzed
with fear and deer bounding away as if the Hound of the Baskervilles was on
their trail. Then there are the snapping
turtles too heavy to run but rearing up, jaws agape, facing young children
whose parents have taught them that it is alright to harass the turtle because
it is inherently vicious and hungry for human flesh. And then there was the porcupine frozen in
fright, looking over its shoulder at me and uttering a small cry that I could not
interpret accurately. At that, I felt
mortified, backed away, and walked away.
Barry Lopez’s insistence that animals are inherently mysterious and
deserve to be granted their privacy told me to let the porcupine be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Animals act according to ages-old survival lessons that are both instinctual and passed down from generation to generation. However, I wonder if Silkin isn’t right,
if there isn’t some special regard in their dark eyes for the human species. Silkin imagines another path for humans, but it
is clear that we haven’t found that way yet.
The woman riding the manatee is certainly one human who has little
regard for animals and no awareness of their need for privacy and freedom. That an animal is there for her exclusive
amusement is the height of condescension, arrogance, contempt, and disrespect even while grounded in profound ignorance. Perhaps she indeed has too many “ride with the
dolphins” or “use-it-or-lose-it” fantasies operating in her underdeveloped
understanding of other species. Unfortunately,
she is not unique. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-31554351500801301242012-09-04T15:02:00.001-05:002012-09-04T15:02:11.973-05:00Gold Miner Jim
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With his grizzled whiskers and the resonant timbre of his
voice he could have been Sam Elliot's brother. He was 60 if he was a day, dressed
in scruffy cowboy boots, jeans, and western hat, and a shirt that looked like
one of the old H bar C or Panhandle Slim work shirts that my grandpa wore in
the 50s. The shirt was a heavy weave, too heavy for the warm summer days of
late. There was a little tear in the shoulder seam and more than one stain down
the front. He smoked a cigarette outside the old log hotel’s open front door
and cast a look every now and then at his aging yellow Labrador retriever.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last night he hadn’t acknowledged us, although we passed him
in the bar and hallway often enough. He helped himself to beers from the big upright
cooler. Finally he gestured for a whiskey and settled into the leather chair by
the fireplace to read a book while the dog slept at his feet. We stepped over his
dog and sidestepped his outstretched legs to get through to the outdoor deck,
but he acted as if no one else was there at all. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The log hotel advertised itself as haunted, and we like to
stop at haunted hotels. We booked room 17, the room where the long-dead lady
who wore lavender perfume sometimes still walked. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rich, dark wood stretched from floor to ceiling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>That night I lay in the log bed, not sleeping
and not smelling any lavender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
windows were thrown open to let in the night breeze, and through the screens I
could see the deer wander into the yard, crook their long legs, and curl up by
the creek that ran behind the hotel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
hotel proprietor had told us with pride that the creek never froze over in
winter, never flooded, and never changed its level. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’d eaten dinner in
the log hotel dining room (appropriately called “Logs”), and the yellow lab had
dozed outside in the grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His partner
in the worn western shirt stood smoking, rocking from foot to foot and looking
out across the little town. In the dirt parking lot robins, mountain bluebirds,
and Western tanagers scavenged for pine cone seeds and insects in the waning
Montana sunlight. Man and dog ambled into the tall grass, scattering the birds
but not the two deer near the church. The deer are so tame in the little town
that they don't run away. They blink languidly at people and dogs, kids on
bikes, slow-moving pick-ups, and they keep nibbling tender grasses and flowers.
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The next morning at breakfast he was walking the floor,
helping himself at regular intervals to the coffee pot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he emptied the pot, he made a fresh one.
It was our topographic map spread across the table that attracted his attention
and must have announced that we weren't swift travelers. That got him talking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"They call this ‘the treasure state,’ you know. Montana's
full of gems and precious metals. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
treasure runs everywhere in currents and pockets and twists and turns all
through this earth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They found two foot
gold veins once, but there's smaller veins right beneath your feet, the size a
man could easily handle.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His fingers
traced a few paths on the map, and he nudged a plate of toast to the side.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If I find even a 4-5 inch vein right in
there,” and he pointed vaguely, “well, I'll be OK. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d get a couple young guys to help me haul it
out."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The hotel was his "headquarters," a place with a
soft bed and endless cups of coffee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Scapegoat Mountains in the southern part of the Bob Marshall wilderness area
were his gold hunting grounds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many days
it was just him and the dog, grubbing about in the rugged landscape, then
resting on a rock or against a tree, the sound of birdsong and the wind their
only company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, he’d be alright, he
told us again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of these days soon
he’d hit that vein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"It takes some doing, you know, and you have to be
careful out there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like a .44 myself."
He tapped our map briskly. "Be careful where you two are going, and be sure
to carry your bear spray."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When he
said "bear spray," he nodded at us and sounded just like Sam Elliot
if he were to say "sunset" or "horse thief,” each syllable enunciated
nice and slow. "Up there in the Yaak, lots of people hide out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re off the grid. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take this pretty scenic route, ok, and be sure
to stop at Liquid Louie's." <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
seemed to regard the bar as the last and greatest outpost of civilization. It
warranted as much description as the elusive caches of gold deep in the earth.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We loaded our bags into the car and thanked him for his time
and conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Now,” he said mysteriously, his eyes glinting in his leathery
face, “I’m not running a business or anything, but if you’re not in a hurry I
could take you to my mining grounds . . . for a little fee.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We drove past Liquid Louie's, a most unprepossessing-looking
dive, at 10:40 in the morning. We didn't stop. </span></div>
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Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-15470667994240005192012-07-13T08:31:00.002-05:002012-07-13T08:32:09.094-05:00What You Lookin' At?<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I think about vision more than I used to now that my once
keen eyesight has more than lost its edge in middle age. Romantic era poet Samuel Taylor
Coleridge spoke frequently of the tyranny or "despotism" of the eye
and how the sense of sight dominates us. Coleridge was right, and even so, it
is sobering to realize just how sight-dominated many people are.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They often value such limited types of
sights that they don't really see what the world has to offer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own ever-dimming yet still dominant sense
of sight prompts me to reflect upon Americans’ oft-declared desire to travel
and experience the outdoors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">People expect a lot out of their road trips, vacations, and nature
in general, and if nature doesn’t put out they are annoyed. They want non-stop
adventure, grand vistas, huge spectacles, and large wild animals. Last year I
set up my spotting scope on a marshy lakeside in Yellowstone National Park.
There were at least 15 different species of ducks, grebes, herons, cranes, and
geese feeding, sleeping, shepherding babies, and otherwise thriving in the
protected park environment. I hadn't been there two minutes before several
campers and motor homes rattled up behind me. "See any bears?" was
the collective query. I replied in the negative and started to list the birds
they could see, but before the third species I heard the camper doors slam and
engines start. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The little stuff just doesn’t attract so many folks. On days
when it rains or snows in the Tetons, Yellowstone, Yosemite, or Glacier – any national
park or “destination” site, really -- a chorus of agonized cries about ruined
vacations echoes through the nation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Going-to-the-Sun road in Glacier is often still closed in July, but people act
as if Nature screwed up and didn’t deliver the goods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, if you simply look down instead of
up (where those horrid clouds are) the world is still full of wonders. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Look right between
your feet at the ground. Notice the variety of plant life and the types of soil
and rock around you. If it has been raining, you are in for a treat. Rain intensifies
hues, and the overcast sky shields small rocks and plants from the sun and its
tendency to wash out color. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look at
this salamander, fresh and green in the rain.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oyjszgaoIhx0x4GeVCh4Zau6A0YoyXiuM4ThVmgembMaCHC_9Kpv2W8HBQmHLya-iytbTcgzXvh1KNt3tX8gcFu_aluOZq4sJuL2BthnePO1t59JKlTNEtyH3ohNTSvuwxZ8BQWPyWU/s1600/Montana+trip+I+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oyjszgaoIhx0x4GeVCh4Zau6A0YoyXiuM4ThVmgembMaCHC_9Kpv2W8HBQmHLya-iytbTcgzXvh1KNt3tX8gcFu_aluOZq4sJuL2BthnePO1t59JKlTNEtyH3ohNTSvuwxZ8BQWPyWU/s320/Montana+trip+I+017.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don't discount that apparently brown, empty, or soggy
landscape. Odds are it is just teaming with life and variety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-ik6MvJAO8iJQ1WKARRssK7EJVpvT0DCAVkDDfopIgP-FSy3gC8EEv9ZH7FJAkgcQNG32jC-tm5jcBpKIGjmWKxmcWo_tEV9hoNoqw_NiKkZ_exSec81fLPgfG9erpQhOpVDM94c8so/s1600/P1010072.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc-ik6MvJAO8iJQ1WKARRssK7EJVpvT0DCAVkDDfopIgP-FSy3gC8EEv9ZH7FJAkgcQNG32jC-tm5jcBpKIGjmWKxmcWo_tEV9hoNoqw_NiKkZ_exSec81fLPgfG9erpQhOpVDM94c8so/s320/P1010072.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Keep in mind, too, that you haven't seen it all before. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how many places you’ve been, one
patch of green turf or grassy dry hillside is not like another. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For every five hundred of my students who
groan that North Dakota, South Dakota, it’s all the same, it’s all boring, I
hear from one who says, no, two miles away in any direction the dirt and birds
and plants and animals all change in subtle ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bring your focus in close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mariposa flower, often called the Sego
lily, blooms abundantly over the sites of the fallen dead in the battlefields
at Bighorn and nods serenely on dry cliffs in the Black Hills.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has a cousin in the open grassy areas of
the Yaak valley to the northwest. If I had not bent down to take a closer look
I would have assumed that it was the same Calochortus nuttallii I had
encountered on my other rambles. But while nuttallii’s petals are smooth and
silky, Calochortus apiculatus in the Yaak has petals that are covered with what
look like fine hairs.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZxMyK_M5ktl7KH9-zF_7FXy1yt1ec-O4uDYe5QQmyaWkNsfybOlP-l9q6g4Le74QDuEdeQZBZJrNmvfpb782__s2NBCRieAGCLXWATFzTLJPZhBYpGEUKoZGDBVTnahncHbD-Sxmaco/s1600/P1010247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVZxMyK_M5ktl7KH9-zF_7FXy1yt1ec-O4uDYe5QQmyaWkNsfybOlP-l9q6g4Le74QDuEdeQZBZJrNmvfpb782__s2NBCRieAGCLXWATFzTLJPZhBYpGEUKoZGDBVTnahncHbD-Sxmaco/s320/P1010247.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The petals look like furry little cat ears.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What if the same bird lives at home and also in faraway
places on a road trip? Many people are bored, and demand that nature be more
attentive to their need for new and entertaining sights. Once again, much is
missed in adopting this attitude. I have renewed respect for a bird I have seen
all my life: the robin. This creature can live anywhere from arid desert to cherry
orchard to damp rain forest. Noticing the ubiquitous robin can also teach you
about the endless changes in landscape across this country and the conditions
under which the robin must feed, find nesting materials, and raise young. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ruffed grouse, too, is a bird that I have seen so many
times in Minnesota and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>is also in high
mountainous Montana country. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8VOmNcFDjjw7AG3ITHbTgfohXRpBHYtvRmCsUuzD0OA61W2fkA6nTqam-NS25b0abrClwBkt-N-GIDuDRArgucHzWxGQU2tzb8b4dw5j8G69K_eKDv0gcgZRaWpPAt_XW-9oMCMXPg8/s1600/P1000922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK8VOmNcFDjjw7AG3ITHbTgfohXRpBHYtvRmCsUuzD0OA61W2fkA6nTqam-NS25b0abrClwBkt-N-GIDuDRArgucHzWxGQU2tzb8b4dw5j8G69K_eKDv0gcgZRaWpPAt_XW-9oMCMXPg8/s320/P1000922.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just as in Minnesota it comes out after a rain to pick at
the plants by the road side, but surely it must eat somewhat different things
at this elevation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surely its nest is
made of different materials, and surely its young eat slightly different
things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Montana is not Minnesota is not
North Dakota is not Michigan.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then there is the spruce grouse. I had never seen one before
I visited the Yaak valley. Apparently, many people, including avid birders,
literally overlook this bird not only because they do not look down but because
they look for the bright moving target rather than the quiet motionless one.
Here is a female that I saw ambling slowly through the grasses and flowers by
the side of a dirt road high in the Yaak. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The male had discovered her, too. Here he is, in full
courtship display in the bend of the road near the female. Not at all perturbed
by us or the idling car, he ran hither and yon and never deflated. On our way
back down the mountain an hour and a half later he was still there. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of the best ways to truly see the outdoors is to put
away the camera. I enjoy taking pictures, but I agree with Barry Lopez when he “feel[s]
uncomfortable about the way photographs tend to collapse events into a single
moment, about how much they leave out.” Sometimes you just do not observe well
when you are snapping pictures. I set aside times to use the camera and times
to put it away and rely on my eyesight and memory. Here are two shots that
captured images I would rather have observed firsthand than recorded and later
perused on a computer screen. The first is of a deer standing in the grass. I
did not realize till later that a second deer was there, too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nor did I really notice the grass or the movements of the
deer in relation to each other.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was so intent upon capturing that "good shot" of
this next deer in a wooded glade that I did not notice that she was missing
half of one ear until I viewed the image on the computer.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixUZSlNe65QIW3nbVdozKCGHR3FXacKpZ4GkBAUCDJNhgk07HTDIQ_crmnGQ7Gw2V_cjy06x_tkE8ykTtPpFJ3NIMiNabd1-Fwr2AhgBYROB1-ZZlUPwrcSuwmeZFpfXBOnWRRRzu-V2A/s1600/P1000949.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixUZSlNe65QIW3nbVdozKCGHR3FXacKpZ4GkBAUCDJNhgk07HTDIQ_crmnGQ7Gw2V_cjy06x_tkE8ykTtPpFJ3NIMiNabd1-Fwr2AhgBYROB1-ZZlUPwrcSuwmeZFpfXBOnWRRRzu-V2A/s320/P1000949.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What happened to her? Did she get into a fight? Did she have
a lucky escape from a predator? I wish that I had put the camera down and
simply watched her instead. And remember, sometimes the split second that it
takes for you to snap a picture is the same split second that it takes for a
bird or animal to run away. Would you rather observe the creature carefully or
mess with your camera settings during that brief moment? I often opt for the
former.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last year I went to the Tetons. It rained all day. The
clouds hung down heavily on the road. That was ok with me. My vacation wasn't
ruined. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-25405808792997850632012-07-04T08:52:00.001-05:002012-07-04T08:52:46.095-05:00The Home Not Lived In<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The
first night that I slept in the Yaak valley in northwestern Montana, I closed
my eyes and saw the pattern of ferns on the floor of a mixed pine forest. The
images were those of an old, smoky, foxed mezzotint, full of grays and browns
and coppers. Typically, behind my closed eyelids before the drift into
unconsciousness, I see formless granular shifting sands or that odd
checkerboard of turquoise and grass green. Only a day into the Yaak and the
place was strangely approachable, as if it could be home-like, though I hadn’t
been there before. I have seen numerous types of forests in the USA, but not
one like this. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Far from
the Yaak I am back home in prairie country preparing for storage the fabulous
coral mushrooms that we picked with a couple named Ginny and Paul. "Come
with us!" they said, and we did. They didn't know us from Adam but wanted
to share with us what they thought would be the unique Yaak experience of
gathering the forest mushrooms, a regional delicacy. Ginny and Paul live in the
Yaak but work on industrial equipment all over the world and in the states.
They had just returned from a job in Romania. During the summers and autumns
they harvest the bounty of the area: mushrooms, huckleberries, deer, and
grouse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Paul
doesn't believe in bear spray, so he strapped to his side a big .460 with a
scope on it and dove into the Yaak's dense forest with us in tow. The coral
mushroom looks like coral, hence its name. It is also called a brain mushroom.
It pushes up through the dark forest floor, and the forest duff of
pine needles, lichen hairs, and loam clings to the convolutions of the fungi. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAVwnBNVqCjOsiOHs1Ueaarqi_q3jtZRDbpYzVjApN_BIfGrsMNF9RtvNepxpCpl3dsMpKZBMjkBvkwuJup_GbuMr-WroXkV5Ju9P0__Xn7700vT6xCBtyM0xwzcgRv9rSos1E_lvdtw/s1600/Montana+trip+I+185.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbAVwnBNVqCjOsiOHs1Ueaarqi_q3jtZRDbpYzVjApN_BIfGrsMNF9RtvNepxpCpl3dsMpKZBMjkBvkwuJup_GbuMr-WroXkV5Ju9P0__Xn7700vT6xCBtyM0xwzcgRv9rSos1E_lvdtw/s320/Montana+trip+I+185.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
picked the younger firm ones, the ones with the whiter flesh. The older,
browner ones are a bit past their prime. The deer and snowshoe rabbits had
gotten to a few of them first, but there seemed plenty to share between animals
and humans. The forest smelled good, and here at home the mushrooms smell good,
fresh, and clean, too. After sautéing and freezing some mushrooms, and slicing
and oven-drying others, I have not washed my hands because I want to relish the
smell of the Yaak forest for a little while longer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">The Yaak
has the ability to make the well-appointed home in the city seem strange and
alien. I am not entirely sure why this is. For many people the Yaak valley
would be a disconcerting place. Airplanes seldom fly over that Pacific
Northwest forest. People do not walk around with their eyes glued to their cell
phones (no service in the Yaak). There is no entertainment industry, there are
no billboards, there are no river cruises or water parks, no coffee shops, no
McDonald's, no movie theaters. A neighbor often lives ten or fifteen miles
away. One would be hard-pressed to find employment, and one rarely sees a
policeman or state trooper unless there is a manhunt in the woods. And the
woods are dark, dense, damp, and steep. Some people would find them spooky and
scary. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRFcqOFk7J_uKRYfeCygYECg9GIZSKDYUH7t0bfPz_eGnVJRgu2ZghcYBA3Bch11enNOCmqLAxShAcUnIIE1VM-xJFHBPEDbHdp5YmQLMFyAizhY-AzfWMLzUxCrfYioguBxLcydc1YY/s1600/P1010166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCRFcqOFk7J_uKRYfeCygYECg9GIZSKDYUH7t0bfPz_eGnVJRgu2ZghcYBA3Bch11enNOCmqLAxShAcUnIIE1VM-xJFHBPEDbHdp5YmQLMFyAizhY-AzfWMLzUxCrfYioguBxLcydc1YY/s320/P1010166.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">But
there are other qualities that prevail. The woods are not so much spooky (although it
would be unwise to underestimate them) as rich and hypnotic. We spent hours
driving on dirt roads at 5 mph, never seeing another soul. The trees themselves
are quiet, saturated in green, and mesmerizing, a closely packed variety of
pines, firs, cedars, and larches, as well as birches and aspens. Birdsong is
loud, fluting, and caroling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnAqQHQGNk2y_r8-YGvfXjQt4ct2JRrCSiunq76VlwrknesYsk43rYvqt-BgKYl6viEDVcq7hqCWg-7dVmi8rg6j0NA_e_SyzeJjwwPZpiWlcjucZBZQhJ-l2-_-vawUxeNoOGHmtGLM/s1600/P1010108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHnAqQHQGNk2y_r8-YGvfXjQt4ct2JRrCSiunq76VlwrknesYsk43rYvqt-BgKYl6viEDVcq7hqCWg-7dVmi8rg6j0NA_e_SyzeJjwwPZpiWlcjucZBZQhJ-l2-_-vawUxeNoOGHmtGLM/s320/P1010108.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">We
stopped at snow-fed springs, parked the car smack dab in the middle of blacktops and two tracks that saw no other cars, and walked on the soft ground, listening
to the run-off, trailing our fingers in the icy water. In a square foot were a
dozen or more types of flowers, mosses, ferns, grasses, and lichens. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd33KBXCNIFByr-xp2QXFGmzEIg0AeAhdqJ2ESszrNlkkwP7qS9Is2HHEO2IGo5XOZkyJHLFNsw3p63DD7IPjYh_cnJ8tdEEf2RySskUzVC2HtHWLBRtrkcxEjwLE1sXrhl3vrs3eJBEU/s1600/P1010137.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd33KBXCNIFByr-xp2QXFGmzEIg0AeAhdqJ2ESszrNlkkwP7qS9Is2HHEO2IGo5XOZkyJHLFNsw3p63DD7IPjYh_cnJ8tdEEf2RySskUzVC2HtHWLBRtrkcxEjwLE1sXrhl3vrs3eJBEU/s320/P1010137.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">After a
few days in such a place, the return home is an odd experience. I found myself
driving to my local grocery store and feeling disoriented at an intersection I
have seen thousands of times. Flashing signs and large billboards seem
intrusive, people are preoccupied with their phones, garbage litters the
streets, and homes seem to have altogether too many things both inside and out.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">I don't
mean to romanticize the Yaak or, worse, disparage my town and a Midwestern
landscape that I have sunk into wholeheartedly and called home. The prairie is
not less diverse or complex or beautiful than the Pacific Northwest forest.
Indeed, it may be richer and more diverse in some ways. I mean only to identify
differences, contrasts, and affinities, and perhaps to pinpoint a landscape far
away that I would like to imagine as a home but that is not and cannot be.
Surely, many of us have encountered such places. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmElBzEXQ2V70LFBRdnZGqIfebczm1U0MxgM0G6SndD19Zk4wieNMQpE_prurEpuoIsUnAa4eafAX05RIA84OHntWUp-SVD1XgnVqwXiz3Kv68BO2O6gIX6u4qAz4XeTUNtO90fEOKWA/s1600/P1010099.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvmElBzEXQ2V70LFBRdnZGqIfebczm1U0MxgM0G6SndD19Zk4wieNMQpE_prurEpuoIsUnAa4eafAX05RIA84OHntWUp-SVD1XgnVqwXiz3Kv68BO2O6gIX6u4qAz4XeTUNtO90fEOKWA/s320/P1010099.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Days
later, the feeling persists. In the old film "Local Hero," the lead
character, a business executive played by Peter Riegert, returns home to
Houston, Texas, markedly changed from a business trip to Scotland and the rhythms
of village life and ocean tides. From his apartment he makes a call, and the
last frames of the film are of an outdoor phone booth, ringing, in the tiny
Scottish seaside town. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif";">Minus
the story's oil refinery plot, I feel like that. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-31009705510979788922012-06-14T14:08:00.001-05:002012-06-14T14:08:31.251-05:00Babes in the woods<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The phoebe eggs hatched on Sunday, June 3. It is now
Thursday evening, an evening with wild wind and a temperature of 90. The guys
are putting a subfloor into the artist's studio, and I have set up a folding
chair in the woods. I soon learn that the woods aren't mine for the borrowing
(which is the only kind of land so many of us can enjoy in 21st century
America). As I get out my camera, I realize that the phoebes have alighted
behind me in their favorite woodsy alcove, silently displeased. I move 20 feet
away. Not good enough. They perch on dead branches, alternately eyeing both me
and a hyperactive chickadee. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgSaAfMg1xks7tJcmR5xNm8yq1R4ceQGPk99IoE8_EtqLOeYPcEbdGrrFo6w46IneiM97WfK1VSumJaDyulyP8B-CkUX4SNtof7aKtkQIe0dZSvBF2tEAo9ivPdlsx1_Uzu2eTdDgeHI/s1600/P1000594.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgSaAfMg1xks7tJcmR5xNm8yq1R4ceQGPk99IoE8_EtqLOeYPcEbdGrrFo6w46IneiM97WfK1VSumJaDyulyP8B-CkUX4SNtof7aKtkQIe0dZSvBF2tEAo9ivPdlsx1_Uzu2eTdDgeHI/s320/P1000594.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I pick up and move nearer to the artist's studio, abandoning
the camera and contenting myself with a beer, the binoculars, and Van Morrison
blaring from the guys' car CD player. One phoebe has already settled on the
nest. It could be either the male or the female, for both will sit on the nest
if the female permits it. Whoever it is rides a bit higher now, the babies
having grown. Earlier I peeked at them with the mirror: five dark dove grey forms
barely covered with light gray fuzz and curled together like sleeping puppies. Tiny
orange-rimmed mouths helped me count.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">My presence is not the only human-generated disturbance that
the phoebes have tolerated. First there was the whole nest-moving episode. And
before the female had a chance to lay eggs in her new nest, we took in a bucket
truck to take down dead trees. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttKzYIc2fSP7r8kLcXiiHkd2M2uaKsxYbHQHYJ-Ykhxxok3gSzcnkumhMVdbOlc7EWXble3xRPmhEDmYT2YzqtHAMzGlB-lrFRrAv1oAUGSClpjxCJP18-s2zs5SzsOUrY9OaRAKhUN4/s1600/P1000372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttKzYIc2fSP7r8kLcXiiHkd2M2uaKsxYbHQHYJ-Ykhxxok3gSzcnkumhMVdbOlc7EWXble3xRPmhEDmYT2YzqtHAMzGlB-lrFRrAv1oAUGSClpjxCJP18-s2zs5SzsOUrY9OaRAKhUN4/s320/P1000372.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The phoebes flew to the slough and waited out the chaos
there. We tried to be as delicate and unobtrusive as is possible with a huge
truck and chain saws. When work commenced on the artist's studio a group of
bright-eyed inquisitive little boys (children of one of the guys) were all agog
to know what I was observing and how the binoculars worked. The phoebes flitted
to the woods as I gave a tour to the boys, who chattered noisily in those stage
whispers that children use when they are trying to be polite and quiet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The wind tonight is a hassle and is ushering in black
clouds. The wren's song still bubbles and cascades through the branches
overhead. A redstart's ringing cry sounds in the neighboring oak. They don't
care that Van is singing, too. Thunder murmurs in the west. The phoebe has
chosen her nest site well. The babies are well protected from the strong breeze
and hot sun. She is off the nest now, and through my binoculars I see a tiny head surface above the nest's
rim and then sink down again. Seconds later downy fuzz ripples and settles
into the depths of the nest. The babies have rolled over in their sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Suddenly the sky darkens with rain, and I hurry to put all of
my optics away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">June 12. I haven't been here since last week. Everyone else
is inside chatting, and I take the opportunity to check on the phoebes. The
babies now overtop the nest. They sleep the sleep of the just,
sound as can be, all fuzz and a couple of beaks lifted skyward. The orange
beaks are the only way to distinguish the individual birds. Otherwise, birds and
nest merge together in perfect camouflage.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXAQ60GKS0DRcKuPOUACXk4NeLxmPWtrQZVEyGcUuKLUSOfBLeUaGJ65s_NlnZwHyvNPOnEqfzxH4QdmVX7Dj9LzLa-3BbzzyzAbCU9AEe4qrTEp4LTc_d7aWlPYtJl1UpvZ8fpQclUc/s1600/P1000889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOXAQ60GKS0DRcKuPOUACXk4NeLxmPWtrQZVEyGcUuKLUSOfBLeUaGJ65s_NlnZwHyvNPOnEqfzxH4QdmVX7Dj9LzLa-3BbzzyzAbCU9AEe4qrTEp4LTc_d7aWlPYtJl1UpvZ8fpQclUc/s320/P1000889.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvGOODR6VXIgxgj2I-CvEWkjPh6Y5-rddwwZbBEw2k44PSvnKoY5Y38gSTsFVEF7FXnNNQO5zm0rR_6GB9QLp-wWraekzhJ0cVAboSIJSHUIrNuDtErPLD_3GMqHjennYxRMP_AtFhM0/s1600/P1000896.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvGOODR6VXIgxgj2I-CvEWkjPh6Y5-rddwwZbBEw2k44PSvnKoY5Y38gSTsFVEF7FXnNNQO5zm0rR_6GB9QLp-wWraekzhJ0cVAboSIJSHUIrNuDtErPLD_3GMqHjennYxRMP_AtFhM0/s320/P1000896.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The parents chip, chip, chip worriedly, and I hear the
gentle flutter of wings as they rush at the back of my head. I back off and set
up the folding chair near the tree where the wrens burble as richly as ever. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The phoebes are not used to me, so it takes them half an
hour to return to the nest to feed the nestlings. Or, rather, nestling
singular, for only one lifts its head groggily from the collective stupor they
are in. In the meantime I have located the nests of two pairs of robins, one
aggregate of grackles (it seems that an entire colony is feeding the nestlings
in one nest), a pair of wrens, and a pair of purple finches. There are three
other nests that I cannot identify. Redstarts, blackbirds, orioles, killdeer,
barn swallows, nuthatches, chickadees, vireos, and blue jays all call from
different parts of the slough and woods. More birds unfamiliar to me rustle and
sing hidden in the underbrush and the leafy tree tops. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now that the phoebes have adjusted to my presence, it is a
regular tag-team effort between the parents as they bring insects to the nest
of comatose babies. I have read that often the female will not permit the male
to feed the babies, but this pair shares the task easily and equitably. They hunt from the tree branches near the nest or down by the slough.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The parents
must have stuffed the babies well during the day because they do not wake and clamor
for food. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With very little effort it is possible to be taken into the
more-than-human rhythms of life. Patience, the willingness to move slowly, and
the ability to spend some time alone go a long way. I feel lucky that all of
the birds so quickly return to their work and allow me to explore quietly the
edges of where they live.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-84151678288038667012012-06-07T08:17:00.000-05:002012-06-07T08:17:25.089-05:00Homecomings<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I discovered the phoebe's nest last year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was under the eaves of the shed and stuffed
to overflowing with four babies who stared glassily with large doe eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were just about to fledge, and the next
time I went to the nest it was empty. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
one remembers seeing the phoebes before last year. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Eastern Phoebe is a small flycatcher with a dark head
and back softening in color to a buff belly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its tail bobs when it sits on a branch, and
its "fee-bee!" call gives it its name. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like all flycatchers, the phoebe eats insects
and is often a lively presence in woodlands and along sloughs and lakes where
it will sit patiently and hunt bugs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have spent some enjoyable times watching a
phoebe poised a foot above a body of water on a branch, only to zip out repeatedly
to catch insects and then return to the same perch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The farm shed on which the phoebe built its nest was once a
garage on the old farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later, when the
old farm site was leveled to put in a highway interchange, the shed was moved
to the present farm and became a place to store the riding mower. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This year both spring and homecomings came
early to Minnesota. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A daughter who lives
out west returned to visit and, as always happens with this family, the merest
wisp of an idea soon turned into a big plan. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One minute people were inside chatting, and the
next they were swarming excitedly over the shed and plotting to turn it into a
small studio for the daughter to use for her art work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they concentrate on a project, it is
rather like watching the kids from the Charlie Brown story
surrounding the sad little Christmas tree. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arms wave exuberantly, and the ugly duckling
becomes a swan. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I step back, letting the clan imagine the shed as artist's studio. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From this
perspective I see two parties appropriating the shed for the future: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the humans inside bustling about and a phoebe
outside inspecting last year's nest on the north wall. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Phoebes are often in regular contact with
human beings due to their preference for quiet farm outbuildings as nest sites.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This phoebe likes this particular
location, and it is easy to see that it satisfies her requirements for a shaded
site protected from the elements. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
rim of the nest is only inches from the roofline and thus sheltered from sun,
wind, and rain. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last year's nest is a
bit battered, but nothing that a new coat of mud and greenery won't fix. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I drive back to town I am uneasy for the phoebes. A word
to the artist, and she pries the old nest off the shed. We hate to do it, but
that wall is slated for major demo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Very little stops a determined bird. Within days the phoebe
has rebuilt the most glorious nest. The female is usually the one who builds
the nest (the male waits nearby), and this one is a beauty: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a
full eight inches tall, stuck all over with little mosses and lichens, and the
cup lined with fine grasses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our hearts
sink. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We feel like the worst petty thugs as we
take down the nest. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismadlW-37o9M4ZFuSN_lNDgsp_QSkG68mtVMMekno5FnZFaBWElPqWklxw1GZmvm359Ipa1HNT68C6jlgysaqFH8hD-iNT8jHnFAXA8yQq2oUodWEq-VXgM3T6Lr0coAkESlsgmGiCr4/s1600/P1000861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismadlW-37o9M4ZFuSN_lNDgsp_QSkG68mtVMMekno5FnZFaBWElPqWklxw1GZmvm359Ipa1HNT68C6jlgysaqFH8hD-iNT8jHnFAXA8yQq2oUodWEq-VXgM3T6Lr0coAkESlsgmGiCr4/s320/P1000861.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The phoebe has not laid eggs yet, but she was clearly ready
to lay them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it too late for her to
start over? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have we ruined the pair's
chances to raise a brood this year? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rand
has an idea. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Could we convince the
phoebes that the old children's playhouse adjacent to the shed is just as good
as a nesting site? </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgN7rXd-bBsOIceEz9c_lV2_zavQMHBj1-w-AGxx4JPOrhRVaiLUR5o-Z-QbCUTB4zMeSogOoMEEbXcHbBOjiwTaL7nODoa5BW_d6-sZdJ86XSjTI9o-yo0YmCjPdbCfU3kzt0ZjV_fo/s1600/P1000352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgN7rXd-bBsOIceEz9c_lV2_zavQMHBj1-w-AGxx4JPOrhRVaiLUR5o-Z-QbCUTB4zMeSogOoMEEbXcHbBOjiwTaL7nODoa5BW_d6-sZdJ86XSjTI9o-yo0YmCjPdbCfU3kzt0ZjV_fo/s320/P1000352.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">First Rand removes from the shed's exterior the hardware
that has provided the ledge that phoebes need to support their nests. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then nails a small piece of wood to the
corresponding place on the playhouse. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Days later we are elated and relieved. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The phoebe has rebuilt yet again, a more
modest nest this time, and soon five small white eggs appear. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She sits on the nest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTmvQf8joJ_7LPEwGDArQLf4hy-Csow49_C3ChrDyM6U_4uLrYA-V76fyRpt6IWDMx_CfyIFmCCYo7lMW9HVEUVyXmzh8RKWP-NTRiAOmPTiXzpKcAL-akG6VxAoJc4ip9yMbpEehm-s/s1600/P1000447.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLTmvQf8joJ_7LPEwGDArQLf4hy-Csow49_C3ChrDyM6U_4uLrYA-V76fyRpt6IWDMx_CfyIFmCCYo7lMW9HVEUVyXmzh8RKWP-NTRiAOmPTiXzpKcAL-akG6VxAoJc4ip9yMbpEehm-s/s320/P1000447.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-47808008705579680722012-05-30T09:14:00.001-05:002012-05-30T09:31:37.955-05:00Foiling the Birds<h1 style="color: #262626; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px; padding: 5px 0px 0px;">
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<div class="yiv1617858862ennote" id="yui_3_2_0_1_1338386598293103">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't like combatting birds, but I have often attempted to do so. I have stuffed chicken wire into nooks and crannies on the house to deter the English House Sparrows when my father was about to blow a gasket in frustration with them. I carefully pulled apart the growing Cardinal nest when my mother was afraid it was within swiping reach of the neighborhood cats. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After my parents died, I made numerous treks to Michigan to clear out the big old house. One hot summer evening I arrived with a backache and a bottle of Jim Beam after a thousand mile drive. A clatter that sounded like some Victorian mechanical contraption interrupted my first cocktail. I crept about as if startled by an intruder, searching for the alarming noise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Research on the computer told me that Chimney Swifts had taken up residence in the chimney and had a hatch of babies. After learning about their declining numbers I knew that I would not disturb them. My affection grew by the day for the mechanical-sounding clamor of the babies when the parents returned with food. I took coffee breaks by the fireplace so that I could hear them. As I cleared debris out the house I would pause to watch the parents zipping through the sky above the roofline. In the evening I sat in the garden arbor and listened to their twittering. They very much were company for me as I rattled around a house grown strange with human ghosts and the household collections of 46 years. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I am asked what to do about the pesky birds at the farm. The swallows are determined to get the best places for their nests. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A wily cat who opens the screen door to let himself out lets in a Swallow, who perches on the ceiling fan and inspects the top of the built-in china cabinet while the lady of the house tries to shoo it out. Denied the home's attractive interior, they carry little daubs of mud to the window ledge outside the front door despite the brightly colored Christmas ribbons tacked up to discourage them. I press wrinkled sheets of aluminum foil to the window ledge as further deterrents. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This morning as we have coffee on the porch the Swallows swoop in and see the foil. They swoop out and light on the gravel drive, three of them, chattering and facing the porch. It is hard to not imagine their vexation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The Phoebes and their nest . . . now, that is another story altogether. Stay tuned.</span> </div>
</div>Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-6037006790520101562012-05-25T09:45:00.000-05:002012-05-25T09:45:12.433-05:00Farm Birds<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Terry Tempest Williams wrote that "there are those
birds you gauge your life by," and I have had a few. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try not to begrudge any bird but admit to
having problems with the English house sparrow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recent MSUM graduate Matt Pullen argues that
when it comes to animals and birds, everyone creates their own hierarchies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds that one person values, the next
person could cheerfully blow off the face of the earth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I would love to have a nest of barn
swallows on my house, a former colleague of mine power-washes the little mud
cups off his house every season, cursing all the while. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pullen says that it is "too easy to value
one targeted species over another . . . When we listen to the story of the
land, we tend to privilege the portion of the narrative that is most relevant
to ourselves."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The work that goes into nest building is astounding. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Killdeer lays its eggs on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She carefully chooses a site and sifts the
earth so that the finest grains line the shallow scoop which cradles her
earth-colored eggs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last summer a man
who had a longstanding irritation with the "faker" bird that drags its
wing along the ground to lure away would-be predators was heart-broken for her.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laid her eggs in the corn field, and
the farmer who leases the land plowed the nest under. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had the spring been less damp, he would have
been in the field earlier and she would have laid her eggs after he had done
his work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Undeterred, she busied herself
to scooping out a new nest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Those eggs
were eaten by a large orange-striped Plains Garter Snake, a knock-out beauty
amongst the more typical yellow-striped garter snakes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Killdeer had no nestlings last summer. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The woman who owns the farm enjoys the song birds, even the
Barn Swallows that she calls comical, graceful, and sweet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she does not want them nesting in the
garage or the shed, and certainly not on the window by the front door, when
there are other places they could choose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last weekend we sat in the recess on the
porch, and the swallows swooped in to survey the window frame. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The garage door was open, and they drifted up
into the rafters to inspect those possibilities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Down went the garage door and up went long
streamers of brightly colored Christmas ribbon on the front window frame. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The breeze tosses the ribbons, and the
swallows will look for a nest site with fewer distractions. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Last winter we said that we would clear out the swallow
nests in the shed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What happened to the
one swallow we do not know, but there she still sat in the cold, a reminder of
the tireless workers that birds are and the short, brief lives that are theirs
on the farm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrote about her in a
piece that was accepted by a journal at the university, although the editors
balked at the title.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"Flitting"
is a word I re-learned from nineteenth century novelist Elizabeth Gaskell. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While it suggests a type of quick flight
movement from one place to another, it also suggests a change from one state or
stage to another. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Often our mere
impatience with species other than our own prevents us from acknowledging their
toils and vanishings, from hearing the narratives relevant to them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, we humans construct their
narratives, and, as I suggested in the previous blog entry, there is often
potential danger in that act. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I reprint "The Flitting" here: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> <span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">All
summer the swallows careered over the fields, toiling to build nests in the
barn, sculpting mud and grass from the slough into rude down-lined cups
plastered onto the rafters, hurrying to raise inky-eyed, gape-mouthed,
floppy-necked babies. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now December snow
races, wind-driven, between the wallboards in long fingers over the earth
floor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The barn smells crisply of
familiar things: decaying mouse turds, rusty tools, flaking paint, crumbling
rags on an old man’s workbench. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
swallows’ nests still cling, dry oyster half-shells glued to the rafters. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The birds have all gone into the great
southern warmth, but one sits lingering here:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>tiny and sunken and frail, wingtips folded over forked tail, like a
messenger from a forgotten world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did
she wait too long, heart stopping in the deepening cold? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or did a germ take her in that patient
attendance on new life from summer’s full ripening arc? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are the eggs beneath her yet, arrested
mid-blossom, calcified into a powdery silt clasped by the mild-clawed
feet?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Winter’s ice-crystalled air eddies
in the barn’s roof trusses, rippling the soft gray feathers that once glittered
midnight blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The startlingly naked,
dark-socketed skull is like a fine cameo or a dusky pearl wreathed by a circlet
of downy neck fluff. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eyeless
and uncomprehending, she seems as vulnerable as a lone figure midway across a
harvested field on a cold moonless night.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kt4W7WlqtHGHXA2kpS85Gu79TYkwd0R-dJSbhY4OA1KIoqLYYj8oKZoUQJzTf_p4N5hbRHbYlt1Y1bQzzM7srz_UIP2xfl-0mbrJMfKOphGt_w1adjqpIHbRpTdDB8ELw7lbJu7yLfQ/s1600/P1000586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kt4W7WlqtHGHXA2kpS85Gu79TYkwd0R-dJSbhY4OA1KIoqLYYj8oKZoUQJzTf_p4N5hbRHbYlt1Y1bQzzM7srz_UIP2xfl-0mbrJMfKOphGt_w1adjqpIHbRpTdDB8ELw7lbJu7yLfQ/s320/P1000586.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Katie Meinershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04666558820866865733noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-140383762517321022.post-41290777163604198402012-05-17T08:27:00.000-05:002012-05-17T10:53:37.476-05:00Inaugural Flight<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVlU8-hmuZ0xXP0GAylXFdZJJ7RtQc2yMUC1mu_8Zx2UE104dTIOOe7XIyQkz9DRvtEFKINjLkghK2RhvgSGF4iXCfa0pTh8TNTJwzNEa2Hbe_ETTI2AgXMW7sKLIqW0liLJ2efuEEfI/s1600/P1000271.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVlU8-hmuZ0xXP0GAylXFdZJJ7RtQc2yMUC1mu_8Zx2UE104dTIOOe7XIyQkz9DRvtEFKINjLkghK2RhvgSGF4iXCfa0pTh8TNTJwzNEa2Hbe_ETTI2AgXMW7sKLIqW0liLJ2efuEEfI/s320/P1000271.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">When I first moved to this upper Midwest plains area I was nonplussed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The land was so flat, so featureless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said that it looked like God had simply put
down his thumb and pressed hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought I was clever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a lot of
mileage out of that line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The people who
thought it was funny either didn’t live around here or lived around here and
thought that the land was flat and featureless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That was a long time ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Over the years I have retrained my eye, my mind, and my language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of my students, Seamus MacDonald, wrote
in an eco-journal for one of my classes about hunting for elk in Montana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He said that “the only way to spot an elk
that isn't moving in a wooded area is to look for its shape.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He talked about looking for elk-shaped logs,
elk-shaped brush, and elk-shaped lumps of land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve learned a lot from his observations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am now pretty good at picking out brown
shapes in brown landscapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And green
shapes in green landscapes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But how can
one hone language to make something recognizably elk-shaped?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know, but I am ready to try.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a Northern Harrier in this photograph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It isn’t easy to see; the photograph isn’t
that good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look for a hawk that is Northern
Harrier-shaped. From a distance the Northern Harrier looks like one of our
Midwestern crop duster planes skimming perilously close to the earth and then
popping up like a winged cork at a boundary line before cascading back earthward.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes Harriers pull in one wing and do barrel
rolls over the fields.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bird's Latin
name is <i>Circus cyaneus</i>: <i>circus</i> for the "circle" that
describes its flight habits and <i>cyaneus</i> for cyan, the steely blue color
of the male Harrier. The female is a rich brown. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A unique feature of Harriers is the disk-shaped arrangement
of feathers around their eyes and ear openings. While other birds of prey rely
almost exclusively on sight for hunting, the Harrier is like an owl in that it also
relies on sound that is directed to their ears by the facial disks of feathers.
I once watched a pair of Northern Harriers in central Montana work a series of
fields amidst a constellation of Short-eared Owls. The two species hunt in
similar fashion, skating over the seed heads of the grasses and sieving sound
with their moon-shaped faces. The slightest animal movement glisters on their
retinas, and they plunge feet first on a mouse or snake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bird's common name, "Harrier," has roots in
the old English "herigan," which means to harass or plunder, lay
waste, slay, or hunt down. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A group of Harriers
is known as a "swarm" or "harassment." "Harrow"
is a by-form of harrier, as the OED claims, which means to plunder, sack,
spoil, lay waste, ravage, or destroy. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A
harrow is, of course, also an implement for breaking the soil. Anyone who lives
on or near a farm knows what a harrow is. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harrows come in many forms, but they all break
up, pulverize, scatter, stir, root up, or disturb in some way. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Both "harrier" and "harrow" have violent
connotations and, interestingly, seem to describe more aptly the human
marauders, despoilers, and monsters of the ages. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is a lot of freight to lay upon the
sleek, buoyant hawk with the disk of feathers around the owl-like eyes. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet in "harrier" and
"harrow" are suggestions, too, as to how the bird operates. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Harrier will ply the grasslands all day
looking for prey-shaped creatures, listening for prey-shaped noises. The
prairie churns in the wind like those sinuous, rippling meadows that resemble the
sea in Andrew Marvell's <i>Upon Appleton House</i> and the famous mower poems. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The hawk chooses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It courses steadily across the inland sea of
fields. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It scans, builds up
distinctions, and selects the mouse-like shape from the water-like grass. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It plunges. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The first Northern Harrier that I saw this spring was on
Easter Sunday in the Sheyenne grasslands of North Dakota. She was flying into a
40 mph wind, shoulders twitching slightly to maintain a steady hover above a
marshy slough. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the hawk harried the
field, the human violence in the old word that names her fell away like a husk.
Grace and efficiency remained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Writing about the relationship between humans and the
natural world means being a deft and careful harrower of the word as well as
the world. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means pulling back when acts
of naming and violence become indistinguishable. That is the purpose of this
blog:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to watch, to hover, to select, to
connect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyesight isn't what it used
to be, but I can spot brown shapes in brown landscapes. I can't hear shapes the
way that the Northern Harrier does, but I will be a harrier and harrower of
words and hope that the violence inherent in the act falls away like a husk
more often than not. </span></div>
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